


Taught by Painful Experience

by Arithanas



Series: The Count and his Valet [13]
Category: Les Trois Mousquetaires | The Three Musketeers - Alexandre Dumas
Genre: 24/7, Aftercare, BSDM, Broken scene, D/s, Established Relationship, Figging, Flogging, M/M, Master/Servant, Rituals, Strapping, Subdrop, Suspension, Top guilt
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2011-12-18
Updated: 2011-12-18
Packaged: 2017-10-27 19:03:43
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,371
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/299037
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Arithanas/pseuds/Arithanas
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The author is aware that BSDM is a lifestyle and the characters are shown participating in a consensual play for their own personal satisfaction. All characters are 18 years old or older. Dumas & Maquet’s work is public domain.<br/>Synopsis: 1636, Blois. It is never a good idea mix family and private matters, nor correction and play.<br/>Warnings: Definitively a D/s play. Slash, or more precisely, smut, between two grown up and consenting men.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. The soil

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1641, Blois. It is never a good idea mix family and private matters, nor correction and play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The author is aware that BSDM is a lifestyle and the characters are shown participating in a consensual play for their own personal satisfaction. All characters are 18 years old or older. Dumas & Maquet’s work is public domain.

‘I have that itch again’, that was what my master said early in the week.

I should note that, as he had said it to my benefit, but my mind had been wandering into another problem. For my master there was only a boy in this world: His son, Raoul, but in Bragelonne we had a little thief: a boy, no more than three years, he had stolen some food and trampled over some plants. My master had already given orders that the thief was handed over to the priest. It was within my responsibilities to enforce his orders. I had managed to put my hands on him a couple of times, but could not force him out of the property. I could not help it, it was personal. Even with my master’s eyes on my back, I could not allow myself to let the child go.

I had never liked children. Particularly, small ones. I had a hard time getting used to young master’s presence, when he first came home, but this thieving child moved me. My main conflict was that my time and my strength were not mine. I had given them to my master a long time ago. For over twenty years, I had been happy to serve my master’s needs, I did not need anything until today. I could not explain it, maybe he was feeling the same way M. Gédéon felt when I was orphaned. In my spare time, I imagined myself rocking him and receiving his hugs. I could not believe I had a paternal feeling inside me, but I wanted him to stay in Bragelonne; I wanted to care for him and teach him everything I knew, I wanted to make the child a hard worker and proud of his craft.

Surely, I was losing my mind.


	2. The thorn

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1641, Blois. It is never a good idea mix family and private matters, nor correction and play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The author is aware that BSDM is a lifestyle and the characters are shown participating in a consensual play for their own personal satisfaction. All characters are 18 years old or older. Dumas & Maquet’s work is public domain.

The image in the kitchen evoke feelings of tenderness and anger at the man who until a few years ago had only been known as Athos. Grimaud, his faithful Grimaud, seated on the bench in the kitchen, had on his knees a little boy, filthy and badly dressed; his hand he held a bowl of rabbit broth and he drew it to that little, hungry mouth with a caring smile on his lips. The child clutched on his dirty hand a piece of new bread, as if it were to be snatched from him at any time. The boy was obviously ravenous.

The Count de la Fère was proud that his valet was capable of such charity, but it did not prevent him from disobeying a direct order.

  An act of disobedience that he could ignore in name of his Christian feelings, but one which, as his master, should not let it pass without punishment. His hand rapped the doorjamb and everyone in the kitchen stopped short their activities.

“Master...”

His valet’s face showed a strange mix of emotions, it was guilt, because he knew he was not doing his job; resignation, because he knew very well he could not hide the boy to his master; anxiety, because he knew his master’s temper. In short, his countenance was like the face of a dog just waiting to be beaten, but unlike the animal, his servant also had his wounded pride. His work, in his eyes, was the only thing that gave value to his life, and that work was to please his master. Displeasing his master was what the servant dreaded most, Athos was aware; not for the punishment — Grimaud could stand the pain — but he could not stand the idea of failing his duty.

The words were not necessary, they are rarely required between them, a look and a hand signal were more than enough; Grimaud rose, stroked the child’s dirty hair with a smile and faced his colleagues with his head held high. Everyone knew he was in trouble, the master was exceptionally hard on him, but the Breton was not going to let the  compassion in their eyes stripped him of his last bits of pride. Before crossing the threshold, his eyes clashed with his master’s and that forced him to bow his head.

“The child must not abandon the kitchen,” the master of the house ordered. His hand, almost casually, discharged a slap on the unprotected neck passing at his side. “Someone to fetch a priest.”

In normal situations, this flip would have been sufficient to ensure the good behavior of the servant. This was considered a light punishment, worthy of a fumble. What Grimaud had done was a rebellion, and should be punished accordingly. The master’s hand pointed to the stables, and Grimaud started walking toward the building with heavy heart.

“Please, master, don’t hurt the boy,” pleaded Grimaud, a part of him wanted the punishment, but some still fighting to protect the child.

Athos raised his eyebrow, surprised at the plea, something that had never left his valet’s  lips when it came to his own safety. He was aware that Grimaud had a jealous streak a mile wide, and that he sorely resented Raoul’s presence in Bragelonne; he was sure it was only his reaction at being alone when he was used to have all his wicked attentions, but the time came and his pet had matured, proof enough was that Grimaud was not thinking in himself or in his master.

That child was sent by Providence.

“Why do you suppose I’d hurt the child?” Athos asked, pushing Grimaud inside the stables. “You are the unruly one, not he!”

One of the grooms was in the building, leaning over a bucket, and stood shocked when Grimaud stumbled through the door and fell. The master’s shadow of poured ominously on the fallen servant’s back.

“I don’t want anyone near the stables until it’s time to lock up the horses,” the order was given in leveled voice, which made it even more serious.

“Yes, _M. le comte_ ,” the man stammered while taking a rag from the bench. However, the groom seemed reluctant to leave them alone.

“Scat!”

The stable man’s hasty departure gave Grimaud time to rise from the floor and, to his master, an opportunity to recognize the setting.

“Close doors and windows”

Grimaud hastened to obey, trying to gain the indulgence of his master with his good behavior, while Athos observed the bucket contents, with the intention of ensuring that he had not interrupted anything important. When the servant finished, he stood behind his master, as usual.

“I gave an order and it was not carried out,”  the words had no special intonation, Athos was just stating a fact. “I’m not happy with you.”  Servant’s anxiety was palpable but, with the impending punishment at hand, he would never dare to speak without permission. “Speak for yourself, if you can.”

“I couldn’t take him with the priest, master...”

“Why?”

“He don’t speak, he is scared... he is alone... I couldn’t!”

“Why?”

“Because I would not see him anymore!” The last reason was almost ripped from his chest.

“I’ve wasted your talents,” Athos replied with a slight tone of sarcasm, “it seems you can see the future, Grimaud.”

“Master?”

“When I give an order, it is because I know what will result of that order,” Athos said, his eyes wandering about the tack displayed on a wall, trying to select the instrument to punish his servant’s arrogance. “The priest was not going to keep the child, he would baptize him — conditionally, of course — and you were going to bring him home. I even had chosen a name for him.”

The information opened a multitude of new paths to consider for the servant, and Grimaud found himself weighing the consequences of his rebellion. He said to himself that whatever it came it was well deserved for doubting his master.

“Are you going to get rid of the child, master?” The question had more grief than he would have liked to show.

“No, I will not punish my own son for your stupidity,” Athos still was trying to decide between the riding crop and the strap. Grimaud hated both equally  “Raoul will need his own Grimaud...”

“Master?” The tone of his question had equal amounts of reproof and alarm.

Athos did not know what part of the idea bothered him more: that his sweet little angel was capable of lending himself to the hard, lewd, sinful joining his father enjoyed so much, or that his servant had him in so low regard to suspect that he thought of training the little orphan for such service. Either way, a quick slap sent Grimaud to the floor.

“Whip out those ideas from your dirty mind!” The master ordered and the decision was taken immediately: He would use the strap. “You’re going to educate that child, so you know he will be proud of taking care of his master...”

“Forgive...”

“Shut up!”

They exchanged glances and the deep shame in the servant’s eyes eased the wrath of his master. None of them wanted to think ill of children, nor wanted reproach the other a thing. Long ago they had come to terms with the relationship that both had, but none of them was ready to consider the same in relation to people different from themselves, were they family or friends.

“Bring me the strap,” Athos commanded, closing his eyes.

Grimaud turned white: The strap was reserved for the worst offenses. Before his master opened his eyes, he darted toward the wall to take the strap, lest the count was to confuse his fear with reluctance to obey his orders. As usual, he presented the instrument with both hands, kneeling on the floor.

“Bad Grimaud...”

“Receive his punishment, master,” replied Grimaud, the words were part of their ritual, and every time they repeat them, they became more meaningful.

“I will punish you, because I am your master,” Athos inhaled deeply before opening his eyes and extended his hand to take the strap. “I’ll give you ten for disobeying, and fifteen more for doubting me.”

“Yes, master,” Grimaud replied, thinking he was out cheaply after having issued such an outrageous insult. “I deserve them.”

Athos made a sign to take off his shirt and Grimaud obeyed.

“Over there.” His hand pointed to the north wall of the barn, next to the work bench. “Breeches down.”

Grimaud got up and walked towards the wall, his mind urged him to beg for mercy as he untied his breeches. Over the years, his master had become very deft with the strap, and he knew very well that at least the next two days he could not sit on his hurting buttocks; but trying to appeal to his master’s sympathy was hopeless. The punishment was fair and he wanted to receive it to leave this cumbersome issue in the past.

“I want to hear your apologies while you get your punishment,” Athos said, cracking the strap. “Hands on the wall. They should remain there until I say so. Do you understand?”

“Yes, master,” was the reply. Grimaud placed his hands at shoulder height and his forehead in the wall. His hindquarters were presented for the penance.

Athos closed his eyes and tried to focus, there was a part of him, dark and twisted, that made his heart skip a beat every time that Grimaud submit to his will, it didn’t matter how small is that submission. Seeing him nude, poised, willing to bear pain because Athos decreted  he must suffer brought him a pressure on his crotch that was almost painful, but so pleasurable. He steeled himself against that feeling, it had nothing to do with _this_. His eyes stared at the defenseless man, his hand release the leather, his shoulder drove the impulse...

The crack of tanned leather over nude skin brought a groan on both men. This was not a gratifying activity, neither of them found joy on the hurtful lick.

Grimaud gritted his teeth. The first pain was always the worst, a flare of suffering that radiated from his bottom and run to his back and thighs before left him numb, shivering, gasping for air. That was soon replaced by a fierce ache of hurting flesh singing its discomfort in high notes as the skin burned red and his eyes welled up.

“I disobeyed...” Grimaud confessed with broken voice. “Forgive me!”

Athos grunted his acknowledgment, and released the next lash, fighting against the satisfaction given by the resounding hit. Grimaud whimpered and mumbled his plea to be forgiven, as his flesh immediately grew red on the side of his ass. Mixed urges were painted in the face of Athos, the desire to end this matter quickly and the urge to touch the rump while still burning. He scolded himself, there would be time for pleasure later.

Slowly, to allow time for each stroke was assayed in its proper force, Athos continued administering the correction, pausing only to hear Grimaud’s apologies and to admire the welts the strap raised in that tight little ass. He was trying to the best of his ability to avoid the sweet spot: Grimaud should not confuse that disciplinary action with that delightful torture that he loved to suffer, and, by the way his haunches twisted and his hands sought a hold on the wall, he was doing it very well.

Grimaud felt he was nothing but a mass of suffering flesh, he had lost count and could not say whether he had received ten or twenty or fifty lashes. His thighs and his butt blazed but his main concern was to keep his hands on the wall, terrified to remove them from their spot, lest his master would like to administer the sentence again.

“I doubted you...” the valet sobbed, his voice was choked with tears. “Forgive me.”

The punishment was nearing completion and in the chest of Count was pride in how well Grimaud had behaved, twenty-four lashes had left his hinquarters red-hot and sizzling but that he had not let go of the wall nor had forgotten to ask for forgiveness. Athos was sure that he would be unable to find a better pet than his around the world. With loving cruelty, Athos pointed the last scourge to the part where the thighs and butt joined and gathered all his force causing the leather crack and the skin quiver, tearing a cry from his servant’s throat.

Grimaud felt the pain, felt the urge to scream, but from his mouth came a mournful whine as the suffering in his hip resonated, vibrates and transmits its power to all organs. His knees buckled, his eyes closed and a tinkle of pleasure ran through his private parts making his agony even more embarrassing.

The master leaned back against the wall, his left hand caressed his valet’s bare back while tremors of his last stroke still shook him. Grimaud looked up, involuntary tears made him look more helpless than he actually was and they aroused Athos, in the same way that the last lash aroused Grimaud: deeply and deviously.

“Kiss the strap,” Athos commanded, the instrument of his torture.

“Forgive me, master,” Grimaud whispered, and complied.

“It’s done, you are forgiven.”

“Forg...”

“Don’t beat yourself...” Athos reassured, caressing his valet’s hair, “that is my job.”

Grimaud looked up at his master and, after a moment of astonishment, a guttural laugh began to sprout from him in short bursts that soon made his master smile and drop the strap. Athos let his left hand wander over his servant’s belly before using his hand to massage gently the skin of that burning rear, his right hand descended and grabbed the other buttock. He smiled as he soothed that abused flesh.

“You’ll have some bruising on that lean ass of yours...”

“I deserved it,” Grimaud sighed feeling the heat dissipated along with the pain. He almost felt he could purr when his master’s expert hands stroked his warm glow.

“Are you fit to play?”

“Do the master wants to mount me?”

Athos did not answer right away, his hands were busy enjoying the heat still radiating from that ass. The offer was tempting, it had been a while since he had that pleasure, but he was not actually engaged by the idea of sodomizing Grimaud. Maybe his lack of enthusiasm was because Grimaud made the proposal. His long fingers found the rim and, absent-mindedly, stroked it.

“For whose satisfaction this hole would be filled?”

“Yours, master,” was the prompt reply.

“It is not my pleasure to fill my hole, not today,” Athos responded, approaching his lips to the ear of his pet. “Today, I want to see you squirm. I want you to suffer for me...”

Grimaud felt his lips parted, the voice in his ear went a long way to his crotch where he became a slow, maddening tingling. Experience had taught him that would pay dearly for days if he said yes, but satisfaction would be much more lasting.

“I am _M. le Comte_ ’s plaything,” he agreed, preparing himself for a long time of agony, “whenever _M. le Comte_ wants it.”

His master changed immediately as soon as he obtained his consent, it was to be expected. His hands gripped the bruised flesh on Grimaud’s butt and he could not help but try to remove them from his sore buttocks while uttering a whimper of pain. Athos’ face announced his displeasure when he pushed his valet with his body weight and dropped him on the floor of packed earth.

“Who told you you could take your hands off the wall?” Athos roared.

The annoyance in his voice shot an involuntary reaction in Grimaud, who tried to run away with all possible speed, but he could not even get up off the floor, his master’s boot struck him in the butt; that made him fall on his face and as he saw stars behind his closed eyes, he also felt a part of his anatomy hardened with each beat of his racing heart.

“Stupid Breton,” Athos muttered as he put his foot on his valet’s helpless neck. Inwardly, Athos was very glad to have taken Grimaud by surprise. “I swear you get more dull-witted every day.”

Athos’ eyes wandered over the desk and found an old straight yoke with three rings, one of those used to hitch two horses together and to a carriage. His mind tried to wonder why this piece was there, if he had never owned a vehicle, but the possibilities of the object made him overlook such considerations. While Athos took it, he realized that it was unusually heavy, but its shapely, varnished surface, made it safe for use.

“Extend your arms!”

Trembling with fright, Grimaud obeyed, he knew he was safe, but these games always scared him. Something hard and heavy was placed against his arms and back and the hand of his master pulled a chunk of his hair.

“Don’t move,” That was not a threat, it was a warning. The last thing he needed was Grimaud knocked out by the beam.

Grimaud nodded, wanting to figure out what was what his master had in mind for him. When that itch seized him, his master used to be very creative, wicked and merciless.

Athos looked at Grimaud’s prostrated form, who surely did not think he was giving am obscene spectacle, displaying his newly punished butt.  His hand groped the wall until he could get them on a pair of reins, sturdy and flexible; he made them crack like a whip, only to see his pet’s reaction.  The spanking was too recent for that sound didn’t make him tremble at least, and Grimaud, as usual, pleasantly surprised his master by emitting a terrified whimper. The reins were not to whip his valet’s skin so he put them into use immediately, passing them under Grimaud’s arms and the straight yoke.

“Beg for mercy, and this will be over,” the Count commanded, tying the reins to the yoke.

Grimaud opened his eyes in surprise, his master did not often leave the door open and when he did it was because he wanted to play harder than usual; his heart beat against his chest as the reins held him by the arms and forearms to the heavy object on his back. Grimaud did not have much time to ponder what that meant, his master put his hand on the central ring and made him get off the ground, then he pushed him, forcing him to walk haltingly since the breeches around him ankles hindered his steps.

“Open your mouth” Athos commanded and Grimaud obeyed.

A copper beaded bit with bit guards was placed between Grimaud’s lips and he felt almost immediately that felt that saliva filled his mouth. Athos made use of the bridle to tie the bit tightly, that will prevent his pet from spitting it out.

“On your knees,” was the next order.

Grimaud felt how his master took away the few pieces of clothing that were still attached to his body. The weight of the yoke was making his arms tired but it soon cease to be a problem. The next sound was the sound of a thick rope sliding on the roof support beam, his master’s boot rested on the small of his back as he tied a secure knot in the center ring. His master walked past him to find an empty bucket and gave him a amused glance.

“Yes, I plan to hoist you up as the mainsail” The Count pointed  out and the tone in his voice sent another touch to the genitals of his pet. With a kick, he put an empty bucket in front of the bound man. “Hop on!”

With difficulty, Grimaud came to the small area, the rings on the ends of the yoke shaked at each movement the man did. With knees and back bent, he tried to stay put, but the extra weight on his shoulders didn’t let him maintain a good balance.

“Don’t move!”

Athos had an idea at the time in which Grimaud was trying to find his balance. He went to the desk and put his hand into the jar of oil to make horse liniment, the aroma of peppermint, jasmine and juniper brought out a smile full of joy.

Grimaud was panting, trying to maintain his position and he let out a gasp of surprise when he felt his master’s  hands in his back, caressing the rim of his asshole. The caress made him lift out the hip and had to fight not to fall again; His master let out his lewd chuckle and continued playing with his hole before helping him to stand still.

“So shameless...” his master teased, nuzzling the dimples of Venus while stroking his hard on with a hand full of oil. “I don’t know my house boy could be this impudent!”

The servant was suddenly all too aware of his nakedness and raised his thigh to cover the family jewels. Any other day, Athos would hit Grimaud’s rear to make him give access, but that day he wanted to see his project in action and headed out on the rope to tie it in a safe spot, while Grimaud was again looking for a way to avoid falling on his face.

Once balance was reached, Grimaud found himself little disappointed because the game ended so soon but the pull of the rope over his head distracted him; the rope took the weight of the shoulders and made him stand up straight. His master came into the view by winding a thin rope on his arm with purely maritime expertise, he gave him a look of curiosity that was short lived. Really short lived. His nether parts, those that were caressed earlier, started to feel warm, warmer that normal. 

“Does the pepermint is starting to bite, Grimaud?” Athos asked sitting on a barrel to cut the rope turns.

Pepermint! Grimaud moaned hopelessly behind the bit, that explained the heat, but that was meant it will only get worse. There was no point, but he could not help it all the same. In the little space he had, Grimaud tried to escape the burning caused by that oil but it was stuck to his skin and his hands were tied, he could only tried to squirm in relief, trying to soothe the burn in his most sensitive parts. His master’s eyes followed his movements, smiling at his predicament and clicking his tongue appreciatively every time one of his contortions made his erection evident. Athos’ hands were busy tying knots on the six parts of rope that he cut. The heat eventually gave way to dull pain of swollen flesh, by then, his master had found another way to make him dance.

“Do me the favor of not denying that you enjoy this, Grimaud,” his master asked smiling, pleased to see that anguished face.

Athos’s hand, as if to prove his point, stroked his erection before passing the rope ring on it.

“If you drop it, I’ll use it to beat your balls.”

Grimaud trembled at the feeling, the bridle and the bit would not let him lower his eyes, but I felt the rope against his abdomen and the tails that fell on his thighs. While trying to guess what it was, his master tightened the rope again, forcing him to stand on tiptoe; his chest narrowed with a feeling of anguish, and his eyes sought his master but could not find him and the feeling of abandonment almost made him loses his head.

“We shall see now how you dance with my music,” his master announced pulling the strings of the place where he had put them, scratching the skin in the process.

The tug and scrape on his genitals forced him to lift a leg to protect himself, that prevented him heard the swishing sound until he felt the impact against his bare skin. The ropes that his master was cutting were united to form a multi-tailed whip, each ending in a knot, by the way the hit felt. The tails seemed to have a life of its own, caressing Grimaud’s bare skin, sometimes hitting so hard it brought tears to his eyes, sometimes barely touching his skin with the tips that were beginning to unravel.

Athos hit his valet as he used to do all things: methodically and quietly. Hard hits were dedicated to the thighs, to force down Grimaud’s legs while the two inches off the knot began to fray and may be used on delicate parts: it was always a pleasure seeing Grimaud flinch when his nut were menaced. For a few minutes, all the noise in the barn were the grunts and groans of Grimaud and the hissing noise of the rope.

“Mh!” Grimaud yelped and it made Athos stop the game.

“What is it?” he asked, moving apart six steps from the cube to be in Grimaud’s view.

“Mh!” Grimaud repeated, apparently he could not say more. He was panting, covered in sweat and with saliva running from the corner of his mouth, however, he was so aroused that was dripping on his feet.

“Mercy?” the Count suggested changing the discipline of hand, ready to undo the knot that kept him in such a precarious situation. Grimaud made a small negative gesture. A knowing smile came to Athos’ lips. “More?”

Grimaud nodded as enthusiastically as the bridle allows.

“You’re a glutton,” he replied with a smile.

These games were wine to Grimaud.

Although the game was fun, Athos felt that his shoulders were tired and he better would not think that Grimaud was so numb he could no longer feel; they could overreach if he was not the responsible one. Athos decided to devote his last efforts at his servant’s rear; he took his distance and began to move the whip in crossed lines, the idea was to stimulate the point where it was uncomfortable to sit, but that sent waves of pleasure to his loins.  It mattered little that Grimaud want to feel pain, this time he would use only the tips of the ropes, that rump had being too mistreated today.

The Breton trembled as he felt the tips teasing in his rear, tantalizing him; his master was working his favorite part where thighs and buttocks joined, he even could feel the ends of the ropes caressing the back of his balls. The pain was less sweet and he wanted more, but he could not turn his head and the grunts he issued were being ignored by his master. With the toe tips, Grimaud tried to bring his butt closer to get more heat.

Athos saw the maneuver, but he could not stop the ropes, Grimaud stuck out his butt and most of the tails hit between the buttocks and, for the stiffled scream that came from his throat, they must have kissed a bad spot. Grimaud kicked in the air, surprised that the pain was not as pleasant as he expected, his heel tipped the bucket and suddenly ran out of support; his weight, hanging from the yoke, cut off his breath and his hands, in despair, clung to the side rings.

“Megcy!” He managed to call out.

Athos had not been watching all the commotion with folded arms, he hastened to loosen the knots that held taut the rope and hastened cut short the fall of Grimaud who rushed to embrace him with his legs.

“Megcy!”  Grimaud repeated as his master hold him against his chest, both trembling by the shock.

“Stupid Breton!” Athos scolded, trying to get his hands on the bonds, but it was impossible with a terrified man over him.

It took Grimaud a couple of minutes to let him go — to say he was afraid that was understatement — but once he was free, Athos approached the cube that the groom was watching when they arrived, they had interrupted the daily production of horse liniment; with a rag and the remedy, he gave Grimaud a good scrub before releasing the bonds, at least he could spare him some pain, warm scented water was poured over red, sensitive skin, while Athos pulled the rope to help his servant with the weight, and use the cloth in circles, looking for signs of cuts or irritated skin, carefully avoiding the area between his legs.

Grimaud moaned all the time. While his master was setting him free, the Count’s gaze fell on him, he was still naked and shivering. The wonderful feeling that had transported him while they were playing suddenly vanished, his arms ached, his thighs were sore and the bottom of his bottom was still stinging. On his knees, he raised his eyes to Athos, begging for a confirmation of his master’s approval and affection.

Athos had to fight the urge to comfort him, he had no intention of rewarding his valet’s lack of common sense. With an angry gesture, he threw a horse blanket on his back.

“Clean this mess,” he ordered, turning around to leave the stable.

Grimaud’s eyes followed him as he crossed the threshold into the morning light, despite the grief that was beginning to gnaw his insides; he felt the need to get up and hug his legs, to implore for a caress to deny his anger, to beg his master not to leave him alone. The impulse to fight his rejection was too strong, and Grimaud, holding onto the last shreds of his dignity and his pride, forced himself  to stay in his place, banning himself from showing his humility freely.

When his master’s back disappeared in the overly bright light of day, a single sob escaped from Grimaud’s chest. There was only one idea in his mind: _His master was not pleased_. His master wanted to use his toy and Grimaud had wrecked their playtime with his selfishness and stupidity. His gaze wandered astray inside the barn, close to him was the yoke and the whip his master had done with rope; his hands stretched, grasped the object and pressed it to his chest, trying to find comfort, even if it was vicariously, in the work of his master.

Soon, Grimaud was crying like an orphaned child, sobbing softly, double up with pain and grief. He cared little that grooms could find him, all that mattered was his master was not there...

He felt so abandoned ...


	3. The rose

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> 1641, Blois. It is never a good idea mix family and private matters, nor correction and play

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Disclaimer: This is a work of fiction. The author is aware that BSDM is a lifestyle and the characters are shown participating in a consensual play for their own personal satisfaction. All characters are 18 years old or older. Dumas & Maquet’s work is public domain.

Only spoiled brats destroy their toys...

Athos was aware that he should not let Grimaud alone, the punishment was hard, and undoubtedly it had consequences. He was being selfish and he knew it, but he could not take care of his pet while he was scared. Under the influence of fear, the most probable outcome was that he do something he might regret; he had committed his worst mistakes frightened beyond reason.

As soon as he reached his cabinet he sat down, his hands were shaking too much and his legs would not support him any longer. Blessed Mary’s heart! He almost lost Grimaud in a thoughtless game...What was he thinking?

Once he had decided to take control of Grimaud’s life, Athos had accepted full responsibility for that life. He couldn’t have it both ways, he couldn’t take Grimaud’s freedom and put the blame on him, that was incongruent with the overall process.  The mistake was entirely his, blame for the accident could only rest on his shoulders. True,  Grimaud loved to share the madness inspired by that tempting demon he always had on the shoulder, specially by night; and it was even more certain that Grimaud was able to do the impossible to see that his master’s needs — and his son’s needs — were met, and how he paid his good will? Endangering him, of course!

What kind of beast was he to enjoy so much hurting whom so much loved him?

His eyes fell on the portrait above the fireplace. No, it was too easy to blame his father. He could have pointed the way, but the decision to hit and to shame had always been his. Athos was man enough to admit this.

The naked true was this: Athos loved to exercise his power to control Grimaud’s life, will and needs;  and his servant loved to give out that control, submission was his way of life and he enjoyed submitting to his master completely. Theirs was a match made in heaven or, maybe, in hell. For better or for worse, that was the kind of life that they wanted; they were happy in their own dark way.

Then why, alas!, he wonder as he lounged in his chair with his back to the fireplace, with his head light, and his shoulders aching, why he felt like so unworthy to live?

***

The distant bells of the Angelus woke him up from his nap. Athos had not even realized he had fallen asleep; he stretched its members, trying to regain mobility after having spent so much time in that awkward position before he realized the time.

Angelus and no sign of Grimaud’s presence.

He rose from his chair and peered into the clear behind the house, from there he could see the stables. Life in Bragelonne continued like any other day, Charlot was tanning a rabbit skin that Athos had hunted the previous day, a girl hung sheets in the sun and Raoul, his little angel, was busy trying to spin a hoop. All normal, but there were no signs of his valet.

With long strides he walked up and down, trying to force himself to not leave the room and sent for him. Perhaps all came down to Grimaud founding a stack of fresh straw and had decided to take his own nap; the playtime must have tired him too. As he passed the window, he saw Charlot’s wife calling the servants to lunch; Athos sat in the windowsill and waited for Grimaud’s appearance.

But Grimaud didn’t show up.

Stubbornness was upon him. Athos decided to play the Count and wait right there until his valet’s head full of straight hair appeared under his window. The devil could take his own lunch...

It was more than an hour of waiting, Raoul left the kitchen with a bread full of jam and the dirtiest face his father had ever seen; _M. le vicomte_ wanted his dessert _al fresco_ , apparently. Athos smiled from above and saw him sitting under a ray of sunshine, there would be time to remove the filth when the child get tired of playing. His father wished that everything that was tainted in his own life might be cleaned with the same ease.

Boredom was taking its toll and Athos started to doze off again, when the person he most wanted to see showed up the west side of the house. Grimaud seemed to walk in his sleep, his gait was somewhat errant, his hair fell over his face. There was something strange in the way which he looked and his master took a few seconds to realize what is it: In such warm noon, Grimaud was clothed as if he started to feel the autumn chill.

“Grimaud!” The count called out from the window.

The servant leap back, startled to hear his master’s voice of in his most authoritative tone. His body trembled, but he looked up at the second floor and his gaze went to his master. Athos had no particular expression, but he was worried; from where he stood, Grimaud looked shaky and helpless, so different from his usual attitude.

“Tea!” Athos commanded and waited for the confirmation nod.

When the confirmation was issued, Athos returned into the room and took a moment to reflect. Apparently, he had finally found his valet’s limit; it was a very satisfying playtime, except for the accident, but it not was worth destroying his toy for something so transient, regardless the rush of pleasure that seized him at Grimaud’s complete submission. No, he would have to put that devotion to better use and risk his pet a little less, and it would not hurt not to mix the punishment with the game in the future. The knock on the door announced the arrival of the requested tea.

“Come in,” Athos said, composing himself.

Grimaud got in, his jaw was set, the tray in his hands had his large metal mug, some light meal, and a small jar of honey, the containers were shaking. With his head bowed, he gave some steps toward his master, who made the sign to set the tray on the table. Grimaud bent over, and placed it in the right place before the fast hand of his master discharged a resounding slap on his butt. The bewildered expression on the servant face said he had not expected that, but it was quickly replaced by a grimace of pain.

“Still sore?” Athos asked, just because it pleased him to have Grimaud admitting his discomfort.

His valet nodded, averting his eyes. Athos kept his satisfaction to himself at seeing that such admission was not followed by a knowing smile; Immediately, he snapped his fingers to draw Grimaud’s attention, who turned his head automatically.

“Accidents happen,” he explained with a low voice. “I’m not angry, in fact, I’m pretty proud of you.” Grimaud's face lit up. Athos’ hand patted slightly his left thigh. “Kneel.”

Grimaud rushed to obey, wincing and gritting his teeth. The thighs were still aching, Athos noted; he opened the large drawer of the desk to get a sealed jar with whole preserved figs. His servant’s eyes followed his movements as he took out two fruits by the stem and shook to remove the excess of syrup. The fruit was a reward and both knew it: The master was happy with his servant’s performance; A little moan of anticipation left Grimaud’s parted lips — figs were his favorites —, and his master tried to suppress a satisfied smile as he settled into his comfy chair.

“Head up.”

When light hit those eyes, the pupils, dilated until that moment, contracted normally and apparently there was no problem to move the neck. The master placed the fruit at a distance of one foot from that upturned face.

“Eat,” The Count commanded, he was quick to slap the hand that reached for the fruit. “Hands in the armrest: use your mouth.”

The reluctance of the valet was noticeable, and it was duly noted, before Grimaud, sighing, steeled himself, squeezed his buttocks and stretched out his back to reach the treat. His fingers clutched the armrest in a vain attempt to control the pain, and by the expression on his face one could be infer that he was on the verge of tears; as torture was not the intention, but rather to assert he was relatively well, Athos showed mercy and lowered his hand to make the task easier.

Grimaud gave him a look full of gratitude before putting a whole fig in his mouth and start sucking on it. For some reason unknown to Athos, his servant never chewed a fig, he only pressed it against his palate and sucked in the flesh until there was only an empty skin, that he swallowed whole. Pleasure on his pet’s face was evident as he moved his lips in a very familiar manner to finish his treat and, not for the first time, Athos wondered if Grimaud ate figs that way to comfort himself with the idea that he was sucking his master’s balls. As such lewd thinking did not lead anywhere, except the fact that figs indeed gave him relief, he caressed his toy’s wet nape to idle away the time.

“You were scared, weren’t you?” Athos asked his servant while the later swallowed the last fig skin. A slow nod was the answer. “There was no reason, do you know why?” Another nod was given, a little more eager this time. “Speak, then.”

“Because, I’m yours...” Grimaud’s voice was thick, his throat must be sore from stifling the screams, but his eyes were bright and trusting. That was all the balm Athos’ spirit required. “I’m your most prized possession.”

“Certainly you are, and tonight I’ll play with you a little more,” the announcement sparked an expression of uneasiness in the servant, “a different game,” Athos clarified, and ruffled his servant’s hair before taking his hand away, “and when I’d finish with you, you will sleep soundly in my bed, because you pleased me, isn’t it, Grimaud?”

“Yes, master,” Grimaud said and it was difficult to discern what brought him more joy: the intention of pleasing his master or the idea of sharing his bed.

“Go and clean yourself, then, you reek like a horse recently galloped up...”

The servant did not bother to respond, he sprang up, without thinking: an order was given and he was ready to comply. With measured steps, Grimaud headed for the door, under the watchful eye of his master. The servant did not seem to have trouble walking. His back was a bit too stiff, though. A hot bath would do him good, but for a couple of days it would be better not to ask him things that require haste.

“One more thing before you leave, Grimaud...” Athos said raising his mug of tea.

“Master?”

“That child is subject to the household rules. If I find him in breach of those rules, I’ll spank his little ass,” the statement was not a threat, it was a fact. “You’re warned.”

“That’ll not happen, master,” Grimaud said, there was a small smile in his voice, because he understood what that meant: the little thief was now part of his master’s family. “I’ll see that he’d be a good boy.”

“I believe you,” And that settled the question. Athos was sure he will never lay a hand on Grimaud’s child.

The door made a little sound when it was shut close. Athos enjoyed his tea, sure that soon Grimaud would be in a hot tube trying to scrub off the mud of that little one. It was good, that child would  keep him busy, and might as well keep him happy.

His mind began to drift toward the notion of ravish his pet thoroughly, later that night...


End file.
